‘There’ll be talk, there always is. The incident will probably pass into village folklore. But the talk will be good. The bookshop will be seen as interesting, notorious, if you like, but notorious for the right reasons – a murder that’s been solved.’
He was startled by the idea. ‘If you say so. But I don’t understand what you think I can do.’
‘At the moment, I’ve no real idea, but you’re the one who found the body. Will you help me?’
Jack didn’t reply. Her suspicions chimed too well with his own feeling that something wasn’t quite right, though his immediate response had been to refuse to be involved in anything so crazy. To be involved in anything, full stop. Particularly if there was a young woman in the mix. Not after Helen. Not ever. And not just after Helen, but his best friend, his colleagues, the whole world of work. He was happier now than he’d ever been, he told himself. Content to live alone, seeing no one he didn’t absolutely have to. So why spoil it?
But then he looked across at Flora and saw the anxious expression on her face, the hands that weren’t quite still, and some pernicious strand of chivalry caught hold of him. He could help her for a day or two, couldn’t he? Though how he was to do that was a mystery. A day or two to keep her happy, and then he could fade from view. He had to face the truth, his new novel was dire. He was writing three words a day if he was lucky, and the books she’d brought – they were just a prop. Why not use a real crime case, if indeed there had been a crime, as distraction, possibly future material?
‘Where do you want to start?’ he asked.
He saw her expression clear and the hazel eyes sparkle with pleasure. This might not be such a great idea after all. She was a little too pretty, hair bobble and all, but if he were ever tempted, he had only to remember.
‘How about the Priory Hotel?’ she said eagerly. ‘Kevin was a guest there. It was his last resting place, before my bookshop, that is.’
‘So we just bowl up and start firing questions at his fellow guests?’
‘Is that what your heroes do? Of course not. We need to be subtle. I know the cook at the Priory. Alice Jenner. We could start with her.’
‘Insider knowledge!’ He tapped his nose with a finger and gave a faint smile.
Flora smiled back at him. ‘Let’s hope.’
Jack was hoping, too, but for something different – that questioning Alice would be the beginning and end of the investigation.
Five
Just after ten the following morning, Flora met Jack Carrington at the gates of the Priory Hotel. Alice Jenner started her day early and by now, Flora reckoned, she would be taking a well-earned rest.
The weather was crisp but bright and, walking beside Jack up the gravelled drive, she felt warmed by a hazy sun. Gradually, the mist that had hung like a curtain over the smooth contours of the Downs was dissolving, their outline etched dark against the pale blue sky. The hills were sentinels, Flora thought, guarding the white stone mansion that she had known all her life, and in far happier times.
At least Vernon Elliot was keeping the parkland spruce. In Lord Templeton’s last years it had run wild, only the home lawn ever seeing a mowing machine. Cyril Knight, Edward Templeton’s gardener for most of his life, had struggled single-handedly to keep the long grass down, the rose garden blooming, and the trees and bushes in the remaining estate under some kind of control.
It had been an unequal struggle, but since Vernon Elliot had taken over with funds to employ a raft of new staff, and Cyril having retired disgruntled, the grounds had been transformed. In the distance, the smoke of a bonfire hazed the air. Fallen leaves, no doubt – the park was full of them. Flora shielded her eyes, trying to make out the figure wielding a rake. She frowned. Bernard Mitchell, it looked like. Was he working at the Priory now? Kate, her friend who ran the village café, had made no mention of her husband taking a job here.
‘It’s best we go through the servants’ entrance,’ she said. ‘The kitchen is close by, just along the corridor. I don’t want too many people to see us.’
‘Cloak and dagger stuff, eh?’
She stopped walking, her figure tense. ‘I need you to take this seriously,’ she said crossly, looking directly into a pair of light grey eyes. ‘The bookshop will go under if I don’t turn things round, and finding out what really happened is the only thing that’s likely to save it. I owe it to Violet to do what I can.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Charlie told me about your aunt.’ He sounded genuine and she almost forgave him. ‘It must be tough running the business on your own, especially after losing Violet. She told me once, when I telephoned an order, that together you were the best team in the world.’
It was more than tough. Violet hadn’t just been her sole relative and her partner in business, but much, much more. She’d meant just about everything to Flora. The nearly three years she had cared for her aunt, while taking responsibility for the bookshop, had meant that most of the friends she’d once had had disappeared. There simply hadn’t been time to include them in her life. Violet had tried to help, battling on until the last few weeks, taking orders and despatching them. Despatching Jack Carrington’s books, in fact.
By the time they’d crunched their way to the servants’ entrance, the sun was streaming down and Flora was feeling hot. She wished she hadn’t worn her bright pink jacket – a light jumper would have been a far more sensible choice – but the swing coat was smart and she’d wanted to make a good impression. On whom? she wondered.
At the side door, they paused, neither of them quite sure of the propriety of bursting in on people during their working day. Jack took off his fedora and used it to fan his face. At close quarters, the hat looked to her more worn than ever.
‘We can’t stand here all day,’ she said decidedly. ‘Come on. Let’s find Alice.’
Alice Jenner was easy enough to find and so was her kitchen. The most beautiful smell of baking laid a trail for them along the rough-flagged corridor to an open door at its end. The cook was taking a batch of scones out of the oven and nearly dropped the baking tray when she turned and saw the two figures hovering in the doorway.
‘My, you gave me a scare! Flora, how are you, my love? Come for a scone, perhaps?’ An unexpected dimple accompanied her smile.
‘I could certainly do with one. They smell divine, but I don’t want to hold you up.’
‘Nonsense. It’s time I had a rest. I’ve been bakin’ since six this mornin’.’ Alice adjusted her cook’s hat, trapping several rogue strands of wiry grey hair, then waved a hand at the wooden counter that lined the large square kitchen. Several loaves of bread, two cakes, a scattering of small pies, and two more trays of scones bore testimony to her hard work.
‘Put the kettle on, Ivy,’ she said to the small dab of a girl washing dishes at the sink. ‘Then have a break yourself.’
China mugs were laid out on the scrubbed wood table and an enormous brown teapot fetched down from a shelf above the counter. ‘A cup of tea will go down nicely,’ Alice said comfortably. ‘Now, who’s your friend? I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘I’m so sorry. How rude of me. This is Jack Carrington. He’s a writer and he doesn’t get out very much – which is why you don’t know him.’
‘A writer – my, that’s a fancy occupation.’ Her faded blue eyes surveyed him with interest.
‘Not half as fancy as baking.’ Jack looked along the counter with a smile.
‘You’ll take a scone, Mr Carrington?’
‘Jack, please. I’d love one,’ he said easily.
When they were all three settled at the table with butter and scones and large mugs of tea in front of them, Flora said tentatively, ‘You know what happened at the bookshop, Alice?’
‘It’s been all around the Priory and back again. Poor young man.’
‘It’s very sad,’ Flora agreed. ‘Did you know that Jack was the person who found him?’
‘No, really!’ Alice’s eyes were wide. ‘How dre
adful for you – and for you, too, my love. It’s not somethin’ you want to happen every day.’
‘I was wondering, did you ever speak to Mr Anderson while he was staying at the hotel?’
Alice nodded vigorously. ‘You couldn’t escape him,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was always askin’ questions. About the house and the village. And the Templeton family.’
‘I suppose that’s understandable, with his uncle having inherited the place.’
‘Mmm.’ Alice took a bite of her scone. ‘Mebbe. But he seemed too nosy for my likin’, though perhaps I shouldn’t say so, him not bein’ with us any more.’
‘You don’t have to like every one of your guests,’ Jack put in.
‘Just as well.’ Alice gave a broad smile. ‘Some of them are plain nasty. That wasn’t Kevin, though. He said for us to call him Kevin though if Mr Elliot had heard, he’d have had our guts for garters.’
‘You liked him then?’ Flora pursued.
‘Not exactly liked. He was too pushy to like. Cyril found that, too. He was always questionin’ us and we both got a bit fed up with it. But I didn’t truly dislike him either. He was pushy but not unpleasant, if you know what I mean. Miss Horrocks, though, definitely didn’t like him.’
‘Who is Miss Horrocks? She wasn’t here in Lord Templeton’s day.’
‘She’s the new housekeeper.’ Alice lowered her voice. ‘West End trained.’ She winked. ‘And don’t we know it.’
Flora slowly spread her scone with butter. ‘Why did she dislike Mr Anderson so much?’
‘He was always wanderin’ around the house. Some of it’s off limits to guests. Mr Elliot has his private quarters in the East Wing. It’s where Lord Templeton used to live – you’ll know it, Flora – and he don’t like guests bargin’ in. No need for them to do so. There’s plenty of space they can wander in. Have another scone, Mr… Jack.’
‘Better not, but it was delicious. Thank you, Mrs Jenner. You say this chap was in Mr Elliot’s private rooms?’
‘The library, he was in the library. It’s right next door to where Mr Elliot has his private office and he’s made sure to rope the area off. It’s quite clear it’s not part of the hotel. Kevin took down the rope, bold as brass, and let himself into the library.’
Flora exchanged a look with her companion. Books seemed to be important to Kevin Anderson. First the Priory library, then her bookshop.
‘Anyways, Miss Horrocks told him to leave and he got quite abusive. We heard the row from down here. Still, he did offer to throw a party, staff included, I will say that.’
‘Why a party?’
‘It was his birthday. He was twenty-one, he said, and that was a great age to be, and since he was a long way from home, we had to help him celebrate. I thought it was a nice gesture. I was going to do the sandwiches and the cake, but he said no, I should have a rest for once and he’d get the village café to do it. Kate’s a fine cook and she could do with the business, so it worked out well. She did this beautiful chocolate cake in the shape of a boomerang! It was quite a talkin’ point.’
‘Who is Kate?’ Jack asked.
Alice looked surprised. ‘You don’t get out very much, do you? Kate Mitchell – she runs Katie’s Nook, the tearoom on the north side of the high street. Lovely girl. Shame about the husband, but then you can’t have everythin’.’
Flora ignored this, hit by a sudden thought. ‘Did the cake taste as good as it looked?’
‘I dunno. We never got to eat it. It was up in Kevin’s room and he was goin’ to bring it down to the kitchen later. After he’d had a drive. That was his treat, he said. Like I told you, Mr Elliot bought this sports car—’
‘I know,’ Flora said quickly, ‘but are you saying that Kevin never appeared in the kitchen?’
‘No, and neither did his cake. Miss Horrocks found it in his room the next day.’
‘Had he eaten any of it?’
‘One slice, I think she said. She was tuttin’ about the waste. I thought it was a blessin’ that he’d actually had some. At least he’d enjoyed a drive in that posh car and then a piece of his birthday cake – before it was too late.’
Flora felt Jack stiffen beside her and wondered if he was thinking the same thing as she, that the cake might have made Kevin ill. ‘What happened to the cake?’ she asked casually. ‘After Miss Horrocks found it?’
‘Mr Elliot told her to throw it out. That was after we knew about the poor man, of course. And the cards he’d been sent and the flowers in his room. Everythin’ had to go. Like I say, all very sad.’
Flora dusted the scone crumbs from her hands and drained her mug. ‘That was absolutely lovely, Alice, but you’ll be wanting to get on, I know.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ the cook admitted. ‘We’ve fifteen guests checked in for lunch and Ivy hasn’t even started the vegetables. But come again, won’t you? And you Mr… Jack.’
‘You could tempt me.’ He smiled down at the plump figure of the cook. He had a kind face, Flora thought, and a sharp intelligence. Nothing much escaped him, she could see.
When they were once more walking down the drive towards the tall, wrought-iron gates, she said, ‘Katie’s Nook?’
‘Absolutely, but tell me more about Kate.’
Six
‘Kate Mitchell has lived in Abbeymead all her life. I was at school with her, in fact, though I didn’t know her very well then. Different classes, different friends. She’s Cyril Knight’s daughter – the gardener who was here in Lord Templeton’s time.’
‘And Kate is another cook?’
‘A very good one, too. I went on to do A levels – they were still relatively new at the time and a lot of the girls didn’t want to do them, Kate included. She went off to catering college instead. I never saw her again until we both came back to the village.’
‘Coming back seems to have worked for her.’
‘She tried Worthing first, I remember Aunt Violet telling me. She was working in a hotel there for a while, but she wanted her own business and came back here to set up Katie’s Nook. Her father helped her. The café is quite small, no more than ten tables, but it’s been very popular. The food is excellent and Kate herself is well-liked in the village. She does a lot of business, too, at the weekly market. People coming in from the farms and smallholdings to sell their produce. Then there are the holidaymakers, they spend quite a bit. She’s just started a new thing, taking orders for food to eat at home. Sandwiches and soup – she cooks fresh soup every day – and of course there are trays of luscious cakes! You should try her cooking some time.’
He could feel Flora looking quizzically at him, assessing him, no doubt passing judgement on the way he lived. That was the trouble with getting involved.
‘What’s wrong with the husband, by the way?’ he asked, hoping it would prove a distraction. ‘Alice seemed pretty dismissive of him.’
‘Well, he’s been in prison.’
‘Really? How exciting this village is.’
‘Not that exciting. It was petty theft, I think. Kate was going out with Bernard Mitchell before he got caught, then stood by him when he was sentenced to two years. She married him in jail. Her father was dead against the marriage but she went ahead anyway.’
‘A two-year sentence doesn’t sound much like petty theft. There’s likely to have been some violence involved.’
Flora pursed her lips. ‘Bernie Mitchell isn’t an attractive character, and there have been rumours in the village that he doesn’t treat his wife well. According to Cyril Knight, his daughter is bullied and abused, but I don’t know how true that is. Mind you, her father has never accepted the marriage. He used to talk a lot to my aunt, and she said he was a very unhappy man, even reckoning his son-in-law had his hand in the till.’
‘Does the man have a job other than stealing from the till?’
‘He’s supposed to help Kate – order in goods, do deliveries, keep the books up to date.’
‘Cook the books?’
‘Quite possibly. It’s what Cyril believes.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Is there any way, do you think, that Bernard Mitchell could have been involved with Kevin? I think he must be working at the Priory now. I saw him in the distance on our way in.’
‘I’ve no idea, but if he’s an ex con…’
‘Give a dog a bad name?’
‘Yeah, I shouldn’t do it, but it was his wife making Anderson’s cake that lodged in my mind. I wondered if—’
‘Me, too.’ She gripped hold of his sleeve. ‘Jack, if we could get hold of that cake or what’s left of it…’
He tussled with himself as to whether or not he should tell her what Ridley had passed on. He was supposed to keep it under his hat, but if he were to be of any real help to Flora, she needed to know.
‘I heard from the police – on the quiet – that the pathologist wasn’t entirely happy with the diagnosis he’d made. Anderson’s heart failed, but there was no sign of previous organ damage, no reason other than a freak accident to account for his death.’
Flora came to a halt. ‘So?’
‘The chap speculated that maybe poison could have caused the heart to fail, though he found no trace.’
‘A poison,’ she said excitedly. ‘That’s it. The one slice of cake.’
‘Steady on. I’ve just said there was no trace of poison in Anderson’s body,’ Jack warned.
‘Maybe it’s one that’s not widely known.’
‘Any pathologist worth his salt would know his poisons.’
‘Yet, in this case, he didn’t,’ she said stubbornly. ‘We need to go back.’
Jack was alarmed. ‘Back where? Not to the hotel?’
Flora nodded. ‘To speak to the fearsome Miss Horrocks. Find out whether it’s true there was only one slice missing, and what she actually did with the rest of the cake. If it’s still around, we could rescue the remains and take them to the pathologist. He’d find the poison then.’
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 4